John had been through a lot. He'd never had an easy life, hadn't expected to for a long, long time. But he got through it all. His dad running out on him, war, fighting and all the terrible things that come with them, because he still saw that light at the end of the tunnel. He still believed in a happy ending.
And Mary, Mary was perfect. Beautiful, funny, kind, smart, perfect. Their relationship wasn't, he knew that at the the time anyway, but she was. She always was.
Watching her die he was helpless. He had failed, failed to keep her safe. She was dying, burning, bleeding, and there was nothing he could do. Not a single thing.
It was at that moment he promised himself, he promised her, that he would never be so utterly helpless again. And there, sat on the bonnet of a police car, holding Sammy in his arms, he felt an overwhelming desire to keep him safe. Because he was tiny, helpless, just as John was.
Sammy was pure, innocent, untouched, whole. Something that he and Dean never were again. Dean had been changed by what he had seen, he was no longer a child. At least that was what John told himself. It was an unspeakable, terrible, bond they shared- a knowledge of a just how much they had lost- yet it only succeeded in tearing a them apart.
They never spoke about it. What happened to Mary, someone must've explained to Dean he guessed, but that someone wasn't him. No, when they discussed Mary it was purely strategical, as if it was just a case to solve. Dean never talked about anything remotely verging on emotions and part of John knew that was unhealthy. But a bigger, much more dominant part of him was very, very glad. And all of him despised himself for feeling that way.
It was revenge that dominated John's life. Pure and simple, old fashioned revenge. Revenge that fuelled him to uproot his boys every few weeks. Revenge that justified raising them in crappy motel after crappy motel. Revenge that stopped him seeing what he was doing to them: because well trained soldiers were better fighters than innocent little boys. And when he failed he was slapped in the face by the image of Dean, who looked so much like Mary, as if it were her ghost standing in front of him, reminding him of his failures. Sometimes, he would look at Dean and the resemblance to Mary would catch him off guard for a moment. Sometimes, it hurt so much to look at Dean that he averted his eyes. Maybe if he hadn't, he might have caught the expression on Dean's face every time he did.
And when all else failed, drink was there for him. Drink that washed away the pain, the failures, the constant, constant guilt. Drink that, for a short and precious time, let him forget.
Let him forget he'd ever even dreamed of a happy ending.